


With you I stand

by Kaiidth



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Changing POV, Feelings, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, better BotFA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 22:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2708552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiidth/pseuds/Kaiidth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <cite>And the story moves many, of any race, for courage, sacrifice and pain and such love is woven into it, only the coldest of hearts remain unaffected.</cite>
  </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of fire and warmth

It is late evening, the sky dark blue, almost black, and when he tilts his head up, all he sees are the stars and the glowing ashes flying away from the fire, dancing and twirling around each other. He watches them for a long moment, mesmerized by the chaotic movements, and lets his mind wander.

They are nearby, all of the company, and he hears pieces of conversations, though not paying them much attention. A brooding silence enfolds him, separating him from the others with its difference and aloofness, when only a couple of steps would bridge the distance between them. They do not approach him, so he sits alone.

The fire was not made long ago, nevertheless, it is great already, flames reaching high up to the sky. They feed it wood and it engulfs one log after another, in a brilliant blaze, reminding him of things that has nothing to do with camp in the wild. He shakes his head imperceptibly, willing such thoughts away.

His back is freezing. The weather is pleasant enough through the day, usually, but as the night nears, cold descends upon the ground and when they set to sleep, many choose to huddle together, to keep warmer in the chilly air. He stays apart, always, facing the other way, eyes wandering toward another lonesome figure across the camp. 

The fire is useful, he thinks. Welcomed even, he admits, when the chilly air wafts, playing with hair at his nape, making him shudder. He stretches his stiff fingers slightly, shifts his legs, moving them nearer, reaching for the heat. It grows hotter the more he edges forward, until the blaze is too strong and he closes his stinging eyes, filled with the unavoidable tears.

His toes are a bit too hot, but the rest of his body is pleasantly warmed, as if enveloped in a thick blanket. He closes his eyes and thinks of home.

Some of the company come to sit opposite of him, after long minutes pass and they feed the flames new wood, making the them brighter, rising higher. He stares into the dancing light, mind lost, and from the corner of his eye he sees the subtle, worried glances others send each other, because of his behaviour, more distant than usual. He cares little, for the moment—content, momentarily, in the blaze.

Heavy arms falling on his shoulders startle him from his pensive silence and an old friend spins him around, seizing hold of his arms, pulling him up, away from the heat, into the cold night. His steps falter, but he follows eventually, knowing he is being childish, they have things to do.

They discuss directions, planning the road, counting for how long the food will last; it is important. But for all that time, he shivers imperceptibly, wishing for nothing else but the heat that melted the tension away from his muscles. Once he knows the pleasure of being so near the fire burning bright, little does he desire to stay aside, in the cool night air.

They feel his withdrawnness tonight, know there is something wrong, something troubling his mind, if only the melancholy—over past, over present, over future, over life.

They leave him be, eventually, and they sing and laugh quieter, considerate even when he needed them not to be.

He sets his bed—a sleeping place, rather—among the last ones. The great pile of bodies he avoids, looking another way and smiles gently upon seeing two young brothers intertwined together, so that it is hard to know where one ends and the other begins, dark hair mingled with blond.

He starts for the fire; there is enough place for him, by the smaller group of bodies, and he wishes to feel the heat on his skin again.

But then his eyes fall upon that lonely figure to his right and he falters, torn between the blaze of the fire and the risk of the unknown. His heart is drawn towards the latter, but his mind fears.

And all of sudden, he feels as if he is able to see for the first time, his whole world shifts, and he understands. Finally he understands, realizes his greatest mistake—worrying about the future too much. He should have lived for the presence, like every day was his last, because while by decision of the fate he lived on, many did not. And then the regrets from the past made him worry about the future even more, and that presence was here to be cherished he forgot entirely.

It changes him somewhat, the tine moment of clarity and he turns away from the flames walking towards his heart's desire.

The other blinks in surprise, when he sets his blankets beside him, but swiftly the shock passes and he smiles up at him. The smile is gentle, genuine and he feels something burst in his chest, flooding his entire body with warmth, making him want to step closer.

And it is not the scorching heat of the fire, that made him content for the moment of cold, it is a warmth that makes his heart beat faster and lips curl up in response, a warmth that he would welcome even in the heat of a forge, or on a summer day at its peak.

He lies down, pulling a blanket over him lightly, not cold anymore, because through the small distance he feels the warmth of another body by his side.

The stars above are beautiful and the dancing ashes as mesmerizing as before, but when he looks up he finds he prefers other things over the distant lights with their cold beauty. For when he once knows the warmth, little does he want to live without it.

He turns his head and when his eyes meet another, that amazing feeling fills his heart again and a small smile pushes its way on his lips. He fights it not anymore, for he knows now, to live for the present.

"Good night, Thorin," his givashel whispers, voice soft.

"Good night, Bilbo."

He is not cold that night.


	2. Of air and breath

One moment he is fighting, beside his family and friends, swishing his weapons around, and the next something huge descents from the sky, grabbing him, lifting him with immense power up into the air. He is proud of himself he does not drop the weapons in surprise.

He does not even have time to make any sound or become afraid, because seconds after he is lifted, he is dropped again. 

Only the hard impact on the ground, which would break his body, does not follow and instead he is left falling free, down the cliff, he realizes. From the corner of his eye, he sees a familiar figure falling in the open air next to him and it is only then, the cold fear seizes his heart.

They land and it knocks the air out of his lungs, but his bones are whole, unbroken, because it is not the ground down below they land on. It is a huge flying eagle, carrying them away from the horrendous creatures, away from the fire.

He feels his brother's hand going around his torso, gripping him tightly and he buries his fingers in the soft feathers beneath him, not letting go. The eagle shrieks and with a great movement of wings he rises up.

Gravitation makes his stomach drop as the air rushes by, down to the depths below. The bird carries them sharply up and he sees nothing, but the vast amount of sky, blue with great dark clouds.

He feels wind in his hair, on his face, forcing its way into his lungs, cold and fresh, a warm hand steadying him, a body pressed firmly against his from behind and they are so high he should be afraid, perhaps, but instead he just feels overwhelmed, amazed by the terrific sight. He has never been afraid of heights, anyway.

His head spins a little from the rapid rise, but he cares not as he breathes in the thin air, deeply, filling his lungs, and then exhales. The wind blows all of his thoughts away and for a moment he forgets about everything, feeling almost joyful.

It reminds him of his childhood somehow, high on adrenaline, doing something ridiculously dangerous with his brother, carefree and young. 

And he is free in that moment, of every responsibility, of all the thoughts and worries. He lets the air caress his skin, play with his hair, blowing it away from his face, keeping his eyes wide open and were he younger, he would have laughed, perhaps, a merry sound bubbling up straight from within his chest.

His eyes start to sting in no time, filling with tears and he closes them, concentrating on the sweet feeling of his brother by his side and wind on his face. 

But that carefree moment is too short, ended by many thing happening simultaneously. A hand digs into his front, twisting in the cloth, almost painfully; he opens his eyes to look behind and sees his brother's face twisted in emotions he never wanted him to experience.

Then he sees the other eagles. The one that carries them was at the lead at first, but now others come to his vision, from the sides and from beneath them, grouping in a formation he can not see, flying steadily, with great movements of wings. He catches sight of the other members of the company and all of sudden the weight of reality falls upon him, taking the joy, replacing it with emotions mirroring his brother's, leaving him breathless.

Then an eagle carrying an unmoving body in his claws flies forward and an agonized cry tears its way out of his throat. A name. 

His voice breaks, and he can not breath, throat painfully constricted, and his heart is beating fast, not from adrenaline anymore, but scared now, afraid for the life of the one who came to be like father to him. And in the corner of his mind he can not but be terrified of the responsibilities that would fell upon his shoulders, were the worst to happen.

His brother finds his right hand, intertwining their fingers tightly, so he has to let go of the eagle's feathers, holding with just one hand now. They press closer, front to back, they are a unite, they always are, and he does not need two hands to stay in place, because his other half is holding onto the eagle from the other side, with the hand that is not clutching his.

The rest of the flight is an agony, the wind feeling too cold now, too harsh, not allowing him to breathe properly, and the only thing keeping the despair away is the warm body pressed against his back, the hand in his.

Their eagle lands on the great rock among the first ones and they slide down from its back, stone feeling familiar under the legs again. They rush to the figure lying on the ground and the one clad in grey, kneeling nearby, paying no attention to others.

His brother breathes out in relief as the one, they feared dead, opens his eyes, but his own throat is still tight, lungs constricted and he reaches down to touch his uncle, helping him up.

He needs something, a reassurance perhaps to startle him away from the shock, to ease the fear within him, but his uncle turns not towards him, walking instead to the small figure ahead of them. And he faults him not, nor does his heart aches for it, because he knows the calling of the heart, the putting one just slightly above all others, no matter what. The two embrace and he watches unmoving, until a hand tugs on his sleeve, turning him around.

He is left staring into the face that brightens his world and suddenly tears burst from his eyes for no obvious reason whatsoever, but his brother understands as always and draws him near. He touches their foreheads gently together, holding him close and he learns to breathe anew with the his brother's breath tingling on his lips.

"It's all right, Fee, it's all right."

"Kee," he whispers, voice breaking.

The distance between them shrinks, their noses sliding against each other, and soft lips press against his in a light kiss. He gasps and takes a deep breath, holding on tight.


	3. Of water and tears

He walks as if in a daze, through the great corridors crawling with people, trying to avoid being bumped into. There are workers, for there is much to do now, but mostly it are healers rushing to wherever they are needed. It is three days since the battle and yet the horrors did not stop, many are dying still, on beds—crying out, or silently passing away—for even with the slender, tall figures mixing with the shorter, sturdy ones, there is not nearly enough healers to care for the wounded properly.

He passes by, unnoticed, steps leading him to the secluded places, away from the turmoil, away from the room that holds those precious to his heart, thankfully alive, but bedridden and broken. He fleets from the worrying glances of friends, not able to pretend anymore that he is all right, not even for him, whose eyes never leave his face, as he sits by his bed.

Hastening his pace, he almost runs through the emptier parts, his heart suddenly aching to feel fresh air on his face. Up the stairs, to the left, then to the right, through the maze of halls, hoping to find a place, that was shown to him before the hardship of battle fell upon them.

Faint breeze tickles his skin and the despair eases away from his heart for that moment, but when he rounds the corner and the terrace opens up in front of him, he sees the sky is grey and it is raining heavily. His pace falters then, as the weather surprises him, after three days of being constantly inside, but after a moment he steps out, into the downpour, caring not.

His hair is soaking wet by the time he gets to the massive stone banister at the edge, as if someone above had poured a bucket of water on him and his coat is not spared either. Putting his hands on the stone, he props himself up, at the tips of his feet and gazes down at the battlefield.

The terrace is not cut into the rock directly over the gate, it is higher and more to the side, as it was meant for the royal's family private usage, he learnt, and so he sees not the whole amount of damage, but he sees enough, even if the rainfall keeps his vision far from clear. Bodies of enemies had been burned already, luckily, for they would be rotting in front of their gates now, and the bodies of those fallen from their side had been taken care of, too. The soil is still soaked with blood, though, and it makes his throat tighten.

Broken remains of the war machineries are sticking from the ground, together with broken spears and arrows, forgotten shields, that have no owner anymore. He sees the fight anew as he looks, sees the place where a miracle had saved his loved one and the place where a miracle failed and others’ fates were left to luck. Tears well up in his eyes and he shakes his head violently, making drops of water fly from his hair, willing the vision away.

Closing his eyes he lifts his face up, for the raindrops to dance on his skin. His clothes are heavy by now, soaked with the water falling from the sky and his feet are cold as a thin sheet of water had formed on the stone, but his usual disliking of the water makes him not go inside.

He lets the water wash away all of his thoughts, all pain and sorrow. The drumming of the raindrops on the stone fills his ears and he no longer hears the echoes of the war cries. As the waters pours down his cheeks and nose, cold, but welcomed, he feels burning behind his eyelids and soon an imperceptible warm trials join the stream.

He thinks of all the people that fell and he knows it is his gentle heart, but it feels like he should mourn for all of them. For their sacrifices allowed others to live and while all lives should have equal weight—except for those of the dark, vile creatures, of course—he can not, but put a few above all.

Weeping, he looks once again at the battlefield and the sky, weeping with him it seems. The water falls down persistently, cleaning the soil, washing the red away, slowly ever so slowly, but it does and he thinks it good, at least some evidence of those horrors will disappear.

Some will not, however, not just yet. Not after weeks spend healing, if ever. He thinks of bright smiles and young faces, knowing to injure one is like injuring both, knowing injuring them, is like injuring the whole company. And he, who lies in that room as well, though thankfully, with wounds minor and body whole, will suffer the most, thinking he failed in their protection. 

And to see those closest to his heart, hurting, physically or psychically, is a great torture to his mind and it brings tears to his eyes anew. He stands there, unmoving, for a long time, letting the rain pour over him, eyes set on the sky, melancholy seizing his mind. 

Lost as he is, in his own thoughts, the slow heavy steps approaching, go unnoticed by him and only then he comes to himself, when two large hands are laid on the banister right next to his and a warm body presses against his side. He turns, startled, to see just the one his aching heart yearns for, even when his mind opposes, knowing it would do no good for him to know of his fragile state.

He feels the tears on his cheeks when he looks into those midnight blue eyes, and knows the rain is not enough to cover them, not from him. And in his face he sees pain and sorrow, but understanding and love as well and his heart suddenly feels too heavy for his chest, every beat a struggle.

His love reaches for him wordlessly and immediately, he buries his head in his chest, placing his wet cheek above his heart, as two strong arms envelop him, holding him close. Soothing words and sweet nothings, whispered in his ears mix with the continual drumming of the rain and he allows himself to weep silently, as all the chaos wants out of his chest. 

The sorrow and grief eases within him, gradually, washed away with rain and tears, heart put back together with few words and touches from the right person. 

As the right person shifts his weight from one leg to another, somewhat uncomfortably, he remembers himself and pulls away a bit, scowling at the bandages peeking out from beneath the simple tunic, now soaked wet.

"You shouldn't have left the bed, Thorin," he says, voice reprimanding, but with a few sniffles to ruin the effect.

"You shouldn't stand in the rain alone, âzyungâl," the other counters.

Intertwining their fingers he drags him inside. They leave puddles wherever they go and the others gape in astonishment as they catch sight of them and he believes time will heal.


	4. Of earth and laughter

He lies in the grass, thanking their maker in his mind, for what feels like millionth time. The sky above him is bright blue, with few clouds to dim the brilliant shine of the sun at its peak, and towering over the trees, a great mountain is visible—mountain for which they all fought so hard. But it is not the beauty of a home reclaimed, nor the peacefulness of a nice spring day, that makes his mind turn to thanking whatever force holds power over their lives. It is the sight he sees, when his head turns right.

In the middle of the small clearing his brother practices with a single sword, fighting with the warrior, who thought them both swordplay since early age. As he sees him swishing the weapon around, movements carefully calculated in concentration, and the sparkle of life, of determination, in his eyes, that lacked therefrom for many long weeks, his heart fills with joy. He can count no more, how many thank yous had he whispered in the privacy of his thoughts, after his brother's body had healed and the darkness lifted from his mind.

The warm breeze caresses his skin and the ground is soft beneath his back and he makes himself comfortable, just watching him, awestruck. The sun illuminates his figure, making hair shine, as a halo around his face, and with the intent, joyous expression, he looks unearthly beautiful. The muscles in his left arm tautens with every new movement of the sword and his right arm is no longer useless either—hanging by his side, as it was in the first weeks—a large shield is strapped to it.

As he raises it, to block the bald-headed warrior's attacks, their eyes meet suddenly, across the distance. His brother halts for a fleeting moment and a brilliant smile breaks out on his face, making his chest swell with love.

His expression changes suddenly to one of shock, as he is tackled to the ground, by the warrior, who presses the blunt blade to his neck for demonstration, yelling about distractions and training being useless and wasting his time. He can not but laugh, when the large figure stomps off exasperated, grumbling about fools and future separate trainings, leaving his brother splayed on the ground, shaking with silent laugher as well. It is possible a similar situation had occurred too many times during a single day for their teacher's liking.

The place has gone quiet all of sudden without the clangour of weapons. He watches the other remove the shield, fumbling with the clasps, but rather unwilling to ask for help, as ever since his injury. As if seeking help would make him appear weaker in others' eyes. 

It saddened him through the first weeks, when he refused his help, but he understands now and stopped offering assistance with simple actions long ago. It must have been rather frustrating, he realized, even if it was only his worry making him fuss. But his brother was neither blind to his feelings, nor heartless, and if he truly needed help, he was the first to go to, the one he trusted entirely, with anything. As always.

Now they share the comfortable silence and he lets him take care of the shield and light armour, content just lying there.

He closes his eyes and listens. They speak not, but the forest is not silent at all. Leaves are rustling, as the wind dances in the crowns and occasionally a birds chirps and while many would think him odd, he can easily find peace here, as well as in between in stone of his home. His heart is light here—as it is not always in the mountain—unburdened with the weight of responsibilities, because he is not a hand of the king here, nor one of the two princes, he is simply a brother.

And while the trust their uncle has shown them by making them both the hands of the king means much to him, means he sees not children in them anymore, he need moments like this. Moments away from everything, just lying in the grass, breathing in the scent of the earth.

The trainings are mostly a charade. His brother need practice now, of course, and he could still use some with the sword, too, but he has no real need to be out here, other than the wish to get away. And his family understands, he knows; he has been too young and carefree, when his life had changed abruptly and brutally and nobody expected him to settle in easily. 

A shadow falls upon him, he senses, even with eyes closed, startling him from his thoughts and he smiles. A second later he feels his brother fall to his knees, one between his legs, then elbows, pressing his body lightly against his. One hand strokes his chin gently and soft kiss is placed upon his lips.

Such joy springs up within his heart that his eyes flew open and an easy laugher finds its way from his chest. In a whirl, he flips his brother over, on his back, propping himself on hands above him.

His golden hair is spread in the grass around his head, blue eyes widened slightly, and his chest is shaking with surprised laughter.

He bows down promptly driven by a sudden need to be closer and silences him with his mouth. His brother gasps, but his hand immediately comes to dark hair, his right arm around his back, opening mouth in invitation.

They lay on the ground under the trees for a long moment, embracing each other, but this time their kisses grow not into something else, this time each of them has their light tunics on, when the soft exchanges of affections end.

Curling up on his chest afterward, he trails his hand from his brother's shoulder, down his arm, aiming to intertwine their fingers, but in his happy daze he mistakes the arms, trekking down the right one. As his fingers reach the place where his brother's hand should be, they find a rough ending instead and then just grass tingling his skin.

His bubble of contentment bursts and for a fraction of second he sees the battle, sees him, who love the most on his knees again, with arrow sticking from his shoulder, wounds crossing his chest, clutching his hand-less arm to his chest, blood everywhere. And his heart aches because he knows—even after months of being persuaded otherwise—it is because of him his brother lacks one hand, as it was him, he threw himself in front of. 

And little did it matter, that he killed Azog then, in blinding despair and fury, even if the whole kingdom worshipped them both as heroes, because he though at the time, he paid the highest prize. And even after time—painfully long—showed that his brother would live, he thought not of that moment as victorious, for his mind was too tormented by it.

He brings himself forcibly away from the memories and traces the wrist from which the hand had been severed, with his thumb, gently, wishing his touch could make it right. But he lacks healing touch, nor does he rule with magic and the only thing he can do is to promise silently to their maker, that if his brother lost his hand for him, then he shall be there by his side for ever more, in its stead. He will be his hand. They will be one. Together, they will be whole.

As he lifts his head to look into the blue eyes, he finds his brother regarding him with an infinitely tender expression.

"Don't fault yourself, Kee," he whispers softly, knowing, as always, what is on his mind.

He exhales and touches his forehead to his brother's, eyes closed tightly, just sharing breath.

"I love you," comes his murmured reply, because what else is there to say.


	5. Epilogue

The three hands they call the two princes of the mountain—the three hands of the king—and it puzzles many foreigners and visitors, until they learn the story behind the name. 

And the story moves many, of any race, for courage, sacrifice and pain and such love is woven into it, only the coldest hearts remain unaffected, when they see the princes standing side by side, heads high now and smiles on their faces.

Only then do they pay more attention to the mithril hand of the fair-haired one, which they though a glove before, such skilfully it is crafted. And those who know not, wonder also about the large piece of what appear a simple crystal or even glass set in it, as naturally, they expect precious gems instead, to match with the priceless metal. 

When they look closer, they see similar stone on a simple mithril wristband of the younger prince as well, and if their eyes serve well, other ten pieces can be spotted, set into various items—from lockets to weapons—of those ten closest to the king and his consort.

And the prince consort wears the thirteenth piece, adorned by thin mithril threads, forming delicate ornaments, hung on a simple chain.

The foreigners would often muse between themselves, why those valued most by the king wear such odd jewels and if anyone of the mountain hears them speaking, another story is passed on, story just as moving as that of the princes.

The story of a gem more beautiful than anything and just as vicious, spawning sickness of the mind. And of one king who slammed the precious jewel against the stony ground, making it shatter into fourteen pieces, making its light and spirit die out, because it threatened to take his mind and thus make their quest fail and his loved one turn away from him. And the shards he divided between his company afterwards, to show how much he valued each of them, though never wearing the fourteenth himself.

And if some repulsive stranger is to inquire, then, what is the point, if they are just simple crystals, not the glowing heart of the mountain anymore, the native people hiss and curse their manners, because for the first time they hold in the highest esteem something other than just all the gold and jewels of the world—their king and those who rule with him, and their story, treasuring it for many generations yet to come.


End file.
